in the miles of the blue pointed eyes navigate the blur imagine skimming skipping along like a trance or a song spinning through the air darting among with thrush and a rush, bobbing for air when the need arise coursing, like a vein these are the days of pure freedom swimming in unison with my brethren in these miles of the blue stretched out in all directions
I wish the whimsical I pray, I dance on the drum skins of the old gods lying forgotten in the thunderlands I shout out, in trance to transform this grassy prairie into the bounty of lush forestlands may brooks break the backs of the deep plates and carve-cut out the roadways for life to venture out upon quench the sponge until overflow from bird to bee, proliferation all manner of life, let this be
notes… one of those that snuck into my skull, I found myself in ancient america at the foot of the grasslands, and wondered what it would have looked like if forest had extended outward coast to coast.. so this is that work…
on calming waters the ripples freeze-frame slide and hypnotize a gull, on a rock, outcrop two swans act as ostriches of the loch the simplicity; the serenity; moves me, sways me, fades me on calming waters distorted reflections like impressionist paintings another world lies, there a-waiting, to dive in and cleanse my soul, shed my common clothes- for a-while, the hands of the mother, curved earth basin cupped vessel filled with the universal for water is life revealed in a mirror from which we walked, from which we waked from which we came; yes on calming waters a goose and child forage grass-ed edge unaware of politics or the foibles of men for this sense ties not to clocks but perhaps to ancient sun dials, sweeping ripples, eyes to follow one by one, out to the horizons gone, like my words- fallen to the shore how many have whispered, the worship here before and let their depths be drowned for spirit rise, to be cleansed for the return, to the dominion of men.
only to fall back, into the mud brick laying the paving, straw and mud, and the modern spoke turning the drudgery of construct- a yoke until again those calming waters call until then, until that baptismal pause shall bring renewal, from mother’s hand
notes… so I wrote this in the parking lot of a church, it was raining so I didn’t get out of the car, but this is my spot, right on the franklin lakes reservoir, it is my spring, my fountain, a spot I can go to and escape the every day right under the thumb of the every day, so I recommend you find one… or better two… or nine, sanctuary to let nature drain the stain of normal life off your pelt… it helps…
forsythia, my dear, my consort cast out upon the land a golden plume a golden mane the stirring locks of ostara herself harbinger of spring message received for you are truly born of the stars from your roots rise sunrise up upon this earth- rejoice! spring’s sweet songs do awaken.
for spring is a procession of progression– cherry blossoms bathe the path in white to lavender and all manners up to purple, urban planning has them lining the streets in rows like a royal parade celebrating victory over the great winter – for at least a time, and short lived they will fall like confetti littering the street on the day after, the daffodils, holding golden cups sky-upward ready to brim with the coming rains, those same rains will flatten them as they nourish the rest of the surely coming green flourish, the ramps, onion cousins, or maybe garlic uncles, no, more like tiny onions, their chive clump headdress pokes through looking like unruly fits of grass, spring onions – yes, they are known to check in with such a name in certain establishments, the arcs of forsythia, golden arches with no drive thru, inspired in such golden rod as to make midas blush, the mornings are filling with song and sun, Ostara winks as her womb births the dawn of hope, and so I do, spring is hope, hope is spring, and then the worn hot complacency of summer sets in, burns out all the green, and then the world must sleep once more to regain, to regenerate, to be born once again – better to enjoy this now, the colors, the procession, the daily progress of life bursting to be seen, yes, take in the scene.
the silk spun of a winter morn a slight of grey weighs – up on over the land a sheer coat of form from that of man across earth herself a pause- the luster of slumber frost
notes… woke up this morning (seems obvious), grabbed my cup of joe from the kcup kiosk installed in my kitchen (starbucks columbia in my uber fancy yeti travel mug – sheesh I’m a coffee dork), throwing my stuff in the car, the phone, the clipboard with all my nonesuch, and I notice it, that perfect coating, that sprayed on amazing coating of frost across the lawn and all the eyes (barely open) can take in, such perfection, sure, it’s damn cold, twenty degrees ain’t no joke, but even in the grip of all this, the little shimmering reflections all around, so I reflected on it for a moment, and this is what I found…
kiss of a sunset to quiet the gears that grind I shall remember
behind a grand tree light slides in the afternoon I take a deep breath
kiss of a sunset absorbs all my creation palms cleansed by water
and shall I count now each of these unto my lips for never lasting
notes… OK… sometimes I snuggle up to haiku… basho is awesome I must admit, I am usually mr. freeform but sometimes something triggers that itch of the japanese verse variety… work was dragging… I could feel it drowning me (my fault), looked out the window, the sun was setting (early this time of year) right behind a big old tree and some buildings, and it gave me pause… and a reprieve, silver linings indeed…
tonight the temp is just right cold enough to be colder than I can just smell the sweet leaves that fell wet so many more to go but this line between seasons in change I lament the summer but feel ready for fall prepared by all the signals my mind is made ready standing-waiting in a train station stop waiting to board the transition on
notes… just walked outside, my windows are open but I am not getting inside this lovely wave of fall air, refreshment indeed in some sense, not reprieve from a scorching day, more like comfort in a perfect blanket zone, comfortable, soothing, but yet hints of fall, the slightly sweet smell of rotting leaves, dying leaves, the intoxicating sweet smell of decay, hinted, and the cricket choir is still living, and loud, but not as much or so much, some what subdued, like the temperature, a bull tamed, a wild horse tamed but yet will fade away into the cold, but right now that feels OK, no, it feels fantastic, relief… sweet belief. oh yeah, and this was something I just wrote in my head when I stepped outside, so, that is what it is, kind of haiku feel…
the wind, is an overture roaring, under conductor, like an inward ocean learned cresting and breaking among the trees I listen for the conversation creaks as if, to contemplate them but even foreign songs have a tell and perhaps my earth memory is quelled, a spring day that presents more like september brilliant blue sky that belies the weather bamboo leaves flipping spinning like an old duck hand carved weather vane, tapping flapping wings with might upward against the stream and stops sudden, a moment, an exhale, perhaps the sun, with effort, tries to warm the day just enough for the brave , to peek out, to partake even just for a split second, top heads poke, gingerly, above the bow, I am swept into this sea – this blend of seasons, a menagerie the rise and fall, the beat and pulse wishes drop like coins into mother’s well the facade of the world surely around invisible and faceless in touch with such bounty.
notes… just a feel thing, a moment, trying to draw the reader into my experience, maybe successful, maybe not, brush strokes against the canvas of reality here in quarantine-ville, the music… starts a little slow, but kicks in around the 2 min mark….
“upon opperman’s pond“ beauty beyond beauty be snow worn on trees witness, jury, frozen pond the slow captured still photo a face of ice milky glass window outlined with banks of snow halted in the cold what now sleeps below forever within this hibernation dirge there remains a joy the indomitable force of life rejoice